room to the cook
of the _Howard_. "Hey, you square-head! Come and have a drink!"

Hanson came over and pulled up a chair.

"I pay for the drinks," said the captain; "but you order, Daughtry. See,
now, Hanson, this is a trick bow-wow. He can count better than you. We
are three. Daughtry is ordering three beers. The bow-wow hears three. I
hold up two fingers like this to the waiter. He brings two. The bow-wow
raises hell with the waiter. You see."

All of which came to pass, Michael blissfully unappeasable until the
order was filled properly.

"He can't count," was Hanson's conclusion. "He sees one man without
beer. That's all. He knows every man should ought to have a glass.
That's why he barks."

"Better than that," Daughtry boasted. "There are three of us. We will
order four. Then each man will have his glass, but Killeny will talk to
the waiter just the same."

True enough, now thoroughly aware of the game, Michael made outcry to the
waiter till the fourth glass was brought. By this time many men were
about the table, all wanting to buy beer and test Michael.

"Glory be," Dag Daughtry solloquized. "A funny world. Thirsty one
moment. The next moment they'd fair drown you in beer."

Several even wanted to buy Michael, offering ridiculous sums like fifteen
and twenty dollars.

"I tell you what," Captain Jorgensen muttered to Daughtry, whom he had
drawn away into a corner. "You give me that bow-wow, and I'll smash
Hanson right now, and you got the job right away--come to work in the
morning."

Into another corner the proprietor of the Pile-drivers' Home drew
Daughtry to whisper to him:

"You stick around here every night with that dog of yourn. It makes
trade. I'll give you free beer any time and fifty cents cash money a
night."

It was this proposition that started the big idea in Daughtry's mind. As
he told Michael, back in the room, while Kwaque was unlacing his shoes:

"It's this way Killeny. If you're worth fifty cents a night and free
beer to that saloon keeper, then you're worth that to me . . . and more,
my son, more. 'Cause he's lookin' for a profit. That's why he sells
beer instead of buyin' it. An', Killeny, you won't mind workin' for me,
I know. We need the money. There's Kwaque, an' Mr. Greenleaf, an'
Cocky, not even mentioning you an' me, an' we eat an awful lot. An' room-
rent's hard to get, an' jobs is harder. What d'ye say, son, to-morrow
night you an' me